


Ghosts

by Nonsuch



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Jupiter Ascending Fic Challenge, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 02:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5074492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonsuch/pseuds/Nonsuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghosts are real. There are things that tie ghosts to a place. Some remain tethered to a patch of land or a time and date. But there are others that hold on to an emotion, a drive: loss, revenge, or love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

Mom explained that my father had been murdered when I was seven years old. Before then, I hadn't felt any particular need to ask about him. My father was absent in much the same way that Vladie’s mother was absent – he was silent, unmentioned and unimportant. Our house was much too full for people we had never met to be missed – the noise, bustle and chatter were incessant, untroubled by any suggestion of loss or absence. Only after a playground conversation (“Where’s your dad, Jupiter?”) did I feel the need to ask where he was. I raised the subject suddenly after swallowing a mouthful of stewed beef at dinner, and the adults went quiet, their eyes turning to my mother.

“I will tell you after dinner. Now finish your plate.”

‘After dinner’ turned out to be bedtime. Mom got me to recite my sums every night as a bedtime ritual, and only after I had successfully divided twenty-four by three did the conversation finally turn to my father.

“Your father was a special man. He loved the stars and the planets.” Mom stroked my hair, smiling fondly. While she looked at me as she spoke, I sensed that her thoughts were far away.

“Did he love me?”

She paused, her smile faltering slightly. When she spoke again, there was something of a quiver in her voice. “Very much.” She bent, pressing a firm, adamant kiss upon my forehead. “He loved you very, very much, enough to name you after his favourite planet. See?” I followed Mom’s finger, turning my head to gaze at the poster of Jupiter – all swirling rings of red and orange – tacked to the wall against my bed.

Still looking at the poster, I responded. “If he loved me so much, why isn't he here?”

There was a long, long pause. I turned from the poster to look at her, and my heart felt heavy when I saw the sorrow written on her face. It was strange to see Mom wearing such a naked, unqualified emotion. “He’s dead.”

“Like Uncle Pyotr?” Old Uncle Pyotr – who I mainly remembered as a cloud of tobacco smoke and mumbled Russian – had died the previous year. My last sight of him had been of his stiff, pale body resting in a casket as the priest had chanted the liturgy. I'd been strangely comforted by the smoke emanating from the incense burners. I’d known he was going to like heaven, with its smoke and its mumbling old men.

“No. Not like that. Your father was killed. Some bad men murdered him while we were still in Russia.”

Without the word ever being explained to me, I knew that to be murdered was worse than to simply die. I knew – intuitively, I think – that murder entailed pain and violence. I knew that ‘murder’ was a word I wasn't meant to know yet, and recognised that Mom knew that too. Yet I burned with questions, my imagination fired by the vague, faceless figure of my father and the suggestion of his fate.

“Why did they kill him?”

“Greed. They wanted money.”

“That doesn't seem like a good reason to kill someone.”

“It’s the worst reason, _kotyonok_. But that’s why we came here. To get away from the bad people, to be safe. ”

That night, I crawled into my mother’s bed and slept in her arms. On any other night, I would have been scolded for my childishness and driven out into the cold abyss of my own bed. This time, though, Mom held me tight to her breast and pressed her face against my hair. Though she didn’t make a single sound, I knew that she was crying from how her body trembled.  I didn't cry, because I needed to keep my eyes clear to look through the window. The blinds were thin and cheap, and I could pick out the muted lights of the stars. In that moment I focused on imagining my father watching the same stars from another shore. When I concentrated very, very hard, I could see his ghost – a vague, poorly defined figure of a man – crouching by the window. Though I couldn't see them, I knew his eyes were following the same path to the stars as mine.

I thought of his love for the stars and his love for me, and determined that I would love the stars as well.

And with that resolve, I finally allowed myself to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The story summary is paraphrased from Edith's closing speech at the end of Crimson Peak, and basically sets the scene - this story will feature a number of different kinds of ghosts, all discussed by different characters. We obviously start with Jupiter reflecting on her childhood, and her father - a ghost of love.
> 
> I'd love to know what you make of this! I'd appreciate comments with your thoughts.


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